


25 to life

by alcaline (aliixce)



Series: Running [1]
Category: In Time (2011), Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Are, Because hell yeah, Dorks, Idiots, M/M, Smut, because that's what they, didi i mention that they were idiots, don't how to tag this, i swear i spend some time on it, in time AU, lots of, lots of what, read and see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4499478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliixce/pseuds/alcaline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey had only 25 seconds left to live.</p><p> </p><p>(in time au )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Remember me for centuries

Mickey was living day after day. Each evening, after work, he was paid another 24 hours on his counter. Every night, the digits were getting higher for a few seconds, before the countdown started again. Living like this was exhausting. Never taking any days off, skipping some meals because prizes were going higher everyday. Illegals fights just to earn a few hours. It was a permanent fight, a constant stress-state. Mickey was sure he was dreaming about time even when he slept.

  


He first caught his eye at the bar. The redhead was smoking a cigarette, sitting in the Alibi. He wasn't talking with the others, he wasn't making stupid bets. He was just here, his fire hair standing out. Mickey thought he was hot, like really really handsome. The kind of handsome that you only see just once in your life. The kind of guys that appear and disappear as fast, like flashes of beauty sprawled across the world. It was the first time he allowed himself to think that since Terry was in jail. It was awful how much an abusive father can fuck you in the head like that, how he forced Mickey to be disgusted of himself. So Mickey always buried everything deep, where even himself had sometimes troubles to remember what he was. Who he was. Even when Terry wasn't around, like 80% of the time, he still kept boys away, just in case it helped.  
It never did.

  


Today was fight day. The tradition appeared after the new system took place, and it never stopped. Two guys, one table, arm wrestling. The Alibi was a cool place, so the guys usually let a few hours on their loser's arm, but in some places, it was all or nothing. Winning or dying.  
Mickey had 27 hours and hoped he could get a few more. It was ridiculous, fighting for only hours when old dicks had centuries for them. But it was like that, it was how they survived.  
Mickey was the best fighter of the bar, but he never really tried more dangerous fights. Just enough to buy groceries and live for another day. But God knows how things ended up in some Southside buildings. Terry brought Mickey to these places once, when he was thirteen. He saw all the cold faces, the rotting bodies, all with the same similarity : zeros on a the timer who had turn blood red.  
Mickey always promised he would never be involved in life or death fights. Milkoviches always used to same technique. Mickey got it from his dad, who got it from his own dad, and the list could go on. You had to let your opponent win until he starts to be confident. The second he stops focusing, you had to turn your hand and hold him until you won. It was risky in life or death fights, but for little prizes, it was more than enough.

  


Tonight was a good night. At the end of the fights, Mickey had won around 6 hours and the whiskey made him happy. And suddenly mysterious-hot-ginger-guy stood up and smirked. He approached Mickey, his moves smooth, almost cat-like.  
"Ian Gallagher. You still have something left for a last fight ? A friendly one. 24 hours left maximum/"  
Bad, bad, bad idea Milkovich. Mickey could lose everything he earned after 3 hours of hard work. But how could he resist to the guy ? He had that look in his face, almost childish, like it was all a game, but smug at the same, the kind of confidence that only comes from kids or fools.  
"Okay tough guy, come over. Loser pays for whiskey." They sat down and Mickey couldn't help smiling.  
"It's Mickey by the way."  
"Okay Mickey, ready to lose ?" The fucker smirked, as if he wasn't as attractive like that.  
"Yeah yeah, keep on talking. You're gonna beg for your mother tonight."  
They took place and grabbed each other's arm and they both pretended that they didn't fell the electricity rush between them.  
They both started by testing the other's grip, or trying to distract the opponent. But both of them had an intense eye contact and none of them wanted to break it. He couldn't help but think how people could write songs about Ian's eyes. Mickey opted for his usual technique. He let Ian take advantage, waiting for him to stop concentrating. He did, and Mickey tried to reverse the fight. Ian smirked and tightened his grip on Mickey. The fucker bluffed. Mickey felt the time leaving his arm, he was really, really fucked. He was losing 6 fucking hours just for a stupid attractive redhead. Ian suddenly let go Mickey's arm, leaving him with 25 hours, 25 minutes, 25 seconds. Ian smirked, as Mickey mumbled something about him being a smartass.  
But almost immediately, Ian took his arm and gave him all his time back. Mickey looked at him, confused. Ian stood up and left the bar, touching Mickey's bicep on the way out, still moving his limbs like a goddamn tiger.  
The fucker gave him a fucking boner, just by touching his arm.  
Trying to get a grip, Mickey realized something.  
He hadn't even looked at the guy's timer.

He came back the next day. Still alone, still looking different. To be honest, he looked... North Side almost. Too pure for that kind of place. But when he talked, it was different. He was... tougher than he looked. He came over with his beer, sitting next to Mickey, as obvious as possible, quite drunk too.  
"Hey Mickeeey." He said, with a huge grin.  
"Are you always so annoying man ?"  
"Nah... I'm just, happy I guess. I beat you at your own game yesterday, and I'm drinking beer. Everything alright I guess." Mickey shrugged, trying to hide that he had a huge grin creeping on his face. Gallagher had this effect on him.

They continued chatting during the night. Mickey wanted to hit himself when he thought that. He never _chatted_.  
"I turned twenty-five a month ago."  
"Congra-fucking-lations man. Now you know how you're gonna look for the rest of your life." _and you do look really good_.  
"Normal people just say that it's amazing. How old are you ? " Mickey sighed. He hated the fact that his face won't move again, like he was fucking made of plastic.  
"Guess I'm not a normal people. I'm twenty seven. We're still fucking babies over here when ya think about it."  
Most of the people were around 70 now, people don't make kids anymore." "You're lucky to look like that for the rest of your life." _Did Ian fucking blinked ??_ Smooth fucker. Mickey would have punched him. But it was Ian, and Ian was different.  


They didn't know how it happened, but it did. A few weeks later, they were both laying near the bay window in Ian's apartment, with only blankets as a mattress. They were smoking weed, and giggling like little kids. Mickey never did that. _Giggling._  
"You're one of those guys who want to kill themselves at 90, so they could live like we used to huh ?" Mickey asked as Ian laughed, smoke escaping his mouth. Mickey had noticed the thin black tape on Ian's arm, something frequent used to hide the timer. Southsiders always refused to wear it, showing off their lack of time and their dangerous lifestyle. A way to pretend that they weren't afraid dying. _Lie._ They cried about it at night.  
"No shit. Too pretentious. I'll live 'till I'm getting tired of it. What about you ?" Ian held his gaze on Mickey's.  
"I dunno. I'll live till I can't find time anymore I guess. It's going to happen soon. Southside is running out." They stayed silent during a few minutes before bursting out laughter again. It's just the weed, Mickey repeated to himself, it's just the weed... It was hot, a summer night, and the glass door was open, letting the night breeze in. They looked at each other and they felt the whole world becoming an hallucination. First there was the music and the smoke, and then there was Ian's breath on his neck, on his chest, everywhere. They didn't kiss, but time still disappeared, it stopped. It was just the two of them, their moans, their breaths. Ian who was moaning Mickey's name as they had sex. It was bliss, Mickey's body shaking from the thrusts. It was sucking, pushing, licking and biting. Something needy, raw, violent and passionate at the same time. It was almost one body moving, until they were both worn out. It was the both of them, laying of the floor, limbs wrapped, holding on hope, on promises. 


	2. One step forward, two steps back

Mickey Milkovich was thunder.  
During the few weeks where Ian had gotten to know him, he still had that nagging feeling that he barely had scratched the surface.  
There was always more to Mickey, always new parts and sides of him, always that kind of attraction that made Ian crawl back to him, and there was nothing he could do about it. And he didn't want to do anything about it.  
Mickey was violent. He was rough, foul-mouthed, stubborn. He was angry. He had that rage in his fists that could make men back down within seconds. He was a raging pitbull ready to jump every minute, wrought by a life of fear and struggle.  
But Mickey was also brightening. He had that smile that could light up the darkest sky and he had that clear laugh that struck you without warning. (The first time Ian had seen Mickey laugh his jaw dropped and he was staring at Mickey in complete awe, like it was the most beautiful thing he's ever heard. It probably was.)  
Mickey was fascinating. He was flawed but beautiful, he was smart but stubborn, he was magnetic. He was the thing that you can't stop watching even if you tried to, and he was the thing you can't help falling in love with, no matter how terrifying it could be.  
Yeah, Mickey was thunder.

 

 

Two months. Two months had passed since "the incident".  
At least that's how Ian called it.  
"The incident."  
Things were good before between them. Laughing, calling each other moron more than their actual names, smoking pot, drinking beer and running after bar fights. Southside life. No questions asked, no questions on Ian's or Mickey's past. It was just the two of them, Southside Bonnie and Clyde.  
They were growing closer to each other, and Ian was already half in love with Mickey after one month of hanging out. He felt like a 6th grader with his first crush.  
Call him a hopeless romantic, but how could you not fall in love with Mickey Milkovich ?  
But "the incident" happened.  
It had been explosive, like always with Mickey. Bursting and unpredictable. Their first time together, burning hot sex (the best sex he's ever had, really) and another lightning.  
Mickey ready to got away. To disappear as fast as he appeared. Thunder, as always.

  
For the first time in a while, Ian felt fear. Primitive, overwhelming fear. He couldn't lose Mickey. But it was all about to blow up. Ian's secrets had to appear one day, and Mickey had a lot of dark sides too. Mickey was reading to fade away and Ian wanted to hold him but they still had so much to learn, so much to live. If they ever meet again.

 

 

 

Ian Gallagher was 18 when he got out of the Southside for the first time. The thing with the time system was, that rich neighborhoods were completely closed to poor people, who couldn't even afford to go there. Real gated-communities. It was during his darker days, full of drugs and broken dreams. The reality of the Southside had caught him, and he was escaping thanks to purple pills and sugar daddies. He had met Lloyd in a club whose name he couldn't remember, where he was shaking his ass for a few dollar bills. Lloyd was rich, handsome, charming, witty and yeah,very, very wealthy.

It all went in a blur, but Ian still remembers clearly the morning when he woke up, still kinda high, feeling disgusting as always when he woke up from one-night stands, and when he saw all the time capsules. A real heaven stocked in a little box, gently packed in the closet. 5 capsules, 1000 years each. Bad, bad idea, Ian. Rich, but not very legal, Ian thought. So when he saw the man peacefully asleep, he did what every Southsider would do. He stole. He popped each capsule on his arm and dissapeared without a word, leaving them empty on the ground.

He never heard from Llyod again.

 

  
It had been hard as first. As a Southsider, he wasn't supposed to have time. So Ian gave almost everything to who were actually needing it. His family. It took time, but they managed to make good use of it, thanks to Lip's brain and Fiona's organizing.

It was all far away now, Ian thought, lips curled around his coffee cup. He got out. He fixed everything. He got out, moving a few blocks away from Canaryville. He took his meds and gave time to his family. He offered Fiona a steady job. they got out, and the Gallaghers didn't have to hide their timers anymore. But each time Ian saw a dead man laying on the concrete, he always felt his guts drop.

 

"You can't save everyone Ian, remember that."

 

Indeed, remember that Ian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter, but don't worry friends, things will speed up soon ;)


	3. Blame game

When Ian saw Mickey for the first time in three months, his breath was cut. He was playing pool in a bar as always, and fuck he was beautiful. His eyes seemed bluer, his hair seemed darker, his skin seemed paler. Ian had been seeking him for weeks now, and Mickey was finally here, looking relaxed, almost bored, as if he had always been there, just under Ian's nose. It was nagging, really.

Ian was so stressed out that he couldn't find the strength to go and speak to him, knowing that he would more likely be rejected, or end up screaming at Mickey, feeling abandoned like a little boy.  
So he stayed here, looking painfully at his beer like it was responsible for all the mess in his life, trying to ignore the fact that his belly was tied in a knot, and that he was pining over a guy he met a month ago, and who he knew nothing about.

When the bar started to close, when Ian was almost drooling on the counter after watching Mickey playing all night long, he felt a hand on his shoulder and a shiver down his spine.   
Mickey was standing here, a smirk on his lips, unpredictable and handsome as always. So when Mickey raised suggestively an eyebrow, Ian didn't hesitate for one second."Your place." Mickey whispered and Ian nodded, eager.

They moved almost in sync and exited the bar. The L ride was filled with glances and even if questions were burning Ian's mouth, he kept thinking: after, after, you don't want Mickey to run away. He was too afraid to dare ask Mickey were he was during those awful three months.  
Then, Ian looked discretely at Mickey's timer. 45 hours. Better than last time, but not a glimpse of what Ian gave him. But Ian still didn't have the balls to ask Mr. Mystery Milkovich anything. He was too captivated by Mickey's smell next to him. He wanted to bury his face in the crook of Mickey's neck and just breathe here his whole life.

 

They entered Ian's apartment slowly, no clothes shattering all over the floor, no heated kiss, as Ian had imagined.  
No, this was a hundred percent different that what Ian could ever have thought about. Mickey took the lead, and the sight of it was so breathtaking that Ian didn't think about dominating the game any second. He just let go and let Mickey do whatever the hell he wanted with him.

Mickey took Ian's hand and gently placed his body against the living room's bare wall. Against all odds, Mickey captured his lips and fireworks blew up. Mickey kept the pace slow, so slow, only slipping his tongue every now and then. Ian was melting, his body trapped between Mickey and the wall, legs weak, prisoner of feelings he just couldn't help. It was too much. Mickey's hands on him, taking his shirt off, slowly, hands lying on Ian's pecs, caressing his abs, and Mickey's hot breath on his neck, sucking a dark hickey, and Mickey's grip on his hair, and Mickey's swollen lips. Mickey was overwhelming, Mickey was everywhere.

Ian was lost, he couldn't say a word, each syllable caught in his throat. All the "What ?", all the "Why ?" couldn't escape his lips, who were far too busy tasting Mickey to care.

If Ian wasn't in love with Mickey Milkovich before, he definitely was by now.

After Mickey was satisfied with his work, which globally consisted in turning Ian into a wreck, he grinned, perfectly knowing what kind of effect he had. Ian was a mess under Mickey's touch.  
He already knew Ian's apartment by now, so he lead the ginger to the bedroom, taking Ian's clothes off, making him lay on his back, while he was still fully clothed. Mickey bend over just to whisper something in Ian's ear. "Please, not a word. Just..." and Ian desperately nodded, ready to follow Mickey to hell if he ever needed to. Mickey grabbed lube and a condom from Ian's drawer and slowly began to undress himself, only looking at Ian with his eyes as for saying "Let me, just enjoy the show." 

Now fully naked, he took off Ian's boxers, smirking at the sight. Ian was painfully hard, leaking. Mickey began to prep himself with his fingers, knowing he was a tease. And Ian, completely hypnotized, couldn't do anything but watch.

Then, Mickey sat on the bed and with a little head sign, gestured to a mesmerized Ian to do the same. Ian sat on the edge and Mickey straddled his lap, kissing him everywhere. Mickey looked Ian right in the eyes, and when the tip on Ian's dick touched Mickey, Ian felt like he could come right now. Mickey sat slowly on Ian's dick, taking him whole, like it was meant to be. Mickey captured his lips in a now heated kiss while he began rocking against Ian. They were both moaning into each other's mouths, only deep moans and slow grunts.

Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian who did the same, and it felt intimate, so intimate, like they weren't having sex, but making love. And it was scary because Ian was so lost, but it felt so good, it felt so right.  
They stared into each other's eyes, Ian memorizing each shade of blue in Mickey's eyes, eyes that could make people write poems about.

Each thrust was slow, felt to good, and they were both panting and moaning. Each thrust was sending jolts of pleasure into both of them.  
They came together, breathing heavily, hand all over each other, and Ian still had his head in the clouds when he fell asleep, snuggled with Mickey, his nose in the crook of his neck, soaking himself with his scent, madly and deeply in love with that man.

 

 

The morning felt like a cold shower. There wasn't anybody next to him, the familiar heat of Mickey's body now long gone.  
Ian had climbed so high that the fall was hard and now he was hitting the ground, full force.

All of Mickey's clothes were gone, each trace of him erased, as if it was a dream and Ian asked himself if last night was real. But the hickeys deeply sucked all over his neck and the red lines from where Mickey's nails had scratched his back were the signs that it all happened.

 

But then it hit him. It had been a game. It was all and always a game. All along, Mickey had known what he was doing, hypnotizing Ian with his touch. Ian fell in the trap. He fell and the worst was, he knew that if Mickey came back, he will fall again. He had been so absorbed in Mickey that all the questions he wanted to ask Mickey were long gone. Mickey was long gone. Mickey had played with him and Ian felt fooled, felt weak, but he also felt incomplete without the dark haired boy with him.  
Mickey the enigma was back.

But a thought was still around in Ian's head. What happened last night, it couldn't be faked. Ian knew it, That was real. The feeling between them, it felt like love. It was love all over their bodies, all over their minds.  
You can't fake that.

While Ian was laying in his couch, staring at the ceiling, still heartbroken, no tears escaped his eyes. He just felt lost. 

Then, he noticed it. The little note scribbled in a bit of paper, dropped in the middle of the floor. Written with a black pen and a nearly calligraphic style, stood in Mickey's noticeable handwriting, two words. "I'm sorry."  
Ian's eyes fell on his arm and he nearly fell. He only had two years left on his counter. Gone the 1000 years that offered him a way out. Enough to live, for sure. But when Ian felt like he couldn't go any deeper, Mickey just buried him.

 

What was going on in Mickey Milkovich's mind, Ian thought at night, when nobody was here to hold him in his bed, when his tears fell along his cheeks, leaving a salty taste in his mouth.


	4. Ultraviolence (Mickey's mind pt.1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to cut this chapter, because it was getting long. Don't worry, you're going to understand someday. I hope it's clear. The first part of the chapter happens after chapter one , and the second part happens after during chapter two. Enjoy :)
> 
> disclaimer : yes, Terry is officially reborn.... for plot purposes.... yeah I know it feels like prison break but I couldn't get this scene out of my mind so he made one last apparition :)

  
_two months before_

It's just a bad day, Mickey thought. It's going to get better. It's all going to get better.  
Except it wasn't. Since he had met Ian, everything was falling apart. Not that it was Ian's fault, he was the only thing that kept him grounded these times. But his life went to shit. Too  
much feelings were getting involved. Too much feelings between these two bar friends, who both knew since the beginning that would fall for each other.  
Kind of funny, thinking about it, because at the point where he was convinced it couldn't get any shittier, when he thought he had hit rock bottom, just at the exact same moment when he left Ian's apartment, determined to never see him again, at that point... it wasn't rock bottom. It was barely the ground. He had barely scratched the surface.  
Only the beginning.  
The beginning of Alice's fall, a long, deep fall into the depths of humanity.

He started to feel it was going wrong when he came home that day, two more years on his counter and a broken heart.  
It wasn't pleasant to see. Like a raging bull, Mickey was throwing everything he could see in front of him. The Milkovich house, as wrecked as it could be, was becoming a battle field. Shattered glass, broken glasses, holes in the walls, and a broken black-haired boy with bloody fists, laying on the floor trying to fix his broken heart with drug-filled tape.

It was easy for some people to break hearts. It was easy for them to leave, to pretend, to make like it never happened. But as he broke Ian's heart, leaving him panting at the door, eyes full of fear and broken promises, it was him who was breaking. How do you break the heart of someone who had lit up your life ? As Ian was crying slowly in his couch, Mickey was burying himself under too much grime, too much drugs, too much wounds. It was easier than to admit, that while burning Ian, he had set himself on fire.

 _He was just trying to save you._  

 

 

 

 

 

"Wake up fucker !" Reality hurts, Mickey thought, as Terry's hands grabbed him to take him off the ground.

"What did you do pussy? Spend the last days fucked up huh?" What an irony coming from Terry, Mickey thought. As if the poor excuse he made as a father was going to give him lecture. Mumbling, Mickey tried to move from Terry's grip. His father finally let go, letting Mickey who went in the kitchen to grab a bottle of beer.  
"I've got a deal, son. We're leaving for a week." Of course. Of fucking course. Mickey sighed. He turned around and looked at his father with dull, red eyes.  
"I'm not coming."  
"How come you're not coming ?"  
"Don't want to." Mickey knew what he was risking, provoking his father like that. But he couldn't bring himself to care. He was already wrecked anyways. Terry barged in the kitchen, grabbing Mickey's wrist tightly.  
"You're useless you know that Mikhailo ? You're a fucking useless kid. Doesn't care about making his father proud right ?"  
Mickey's wrist was getting swollen, and he prayed silently. Please don't notice the timer. Please don't.  
"What's that ?" Terry's burning eyes were staring at Mickey with a curious glare.  
"Two years kid? Where did ya find'em ?" Mickey stuttered, his hazed mind struggling to find a decent lie. He was tired to fight.  
"You mute kid ? Anyway, thanks son. It's nice to think about your father sometime." Strongly, Terry applied pressure on Mickey's wrist, who watched helplessly the digits climbing up on Terry's own wrist. They wasn't anything he could do about it. He was tired, he was powerless. He just wanted to sleep. Once Terry was satisfied with the amount of time, leaving Mickey with 40 hours on his counter, he turned around and grabbed his coat. Mickey sore throat emitted a weak growl, vaguely trying to protest.  
"My house, my rules, my time." Terry said, slamming the front door on his way out.

Mickey Milkovich had never been a lucky person.

 

 

Terry didn't notice the shadow hiding in the next frontyard.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_two days after the second incident_

 

  
"You know man, he's a good guy. A really good guy... The kind of people you don't find nowadays. The first time I met him, he looked all smug and shit but in fact he's just a little scared puppy.  
He just wants to be happy... And he has that way of biting his hand when he's stressed out and he has that way to smile when he's happy. It's not a smile it's like a fucking sun on the dude's face !  
Kinda miss him ya know... We were really good friends before ... Before we fucked and it blew up. The fucking was great, really man, aaaawesome, like best fuck ever type shit ya know ? But I forgot my timer... You know, those teeny tiny little little greeny thingies on my wrist... I paid you with them ya know ?  
God I feel so drunk right now. Anyway. Thanks man, really, it feels really good ya know, talking to someone, like opening up. See ya man."  
Mickey held his gaze longer on the Poliakov bottle before throwing it against a wall, shattered glass falling down like silver rain. He stood up, still stumbling drunk, leaving the empty parking lot and his imaginary friend.

 

He didn't notice the black shadow hiding behind the closed grocery store next to the parking lot.

 

_six weeks later_

 

"Hurts like a bitch doesn't it ?"  
"Oh fuck off."  
"I told you it would hurt. You didn't listen to me. You never listen to anybody anyway."  
"Shut the fuck up."  
"I told you, needles aren't good. You should have smoked it inst-"  
"FUCK OFF !"

 

"You still high Mickey ?"  
"Yea."  
"Maybe you should stop. It's getting dangerous."  
"Why you care ?"  
"Because auto-destroying yourself isn't the solution. Never will be."  
"It's my problem."  
"You have to find him."  
"I know."  
"To get clean."  
"I know."  
"To fix your shit, you're getting low on time."  
"I know."  
"You need to-"  
"Stop lecturing me !!! You don't fucking exist alright! You're just a fucking voice in my head who's constantly nagging me and... and I can't fucking stand it anymore."  
"Finally. I was kinda starting to loose hope up there. You finally realized you've been talking to yourself for the past six weeks. You're going batshit crazy Mickey."  
"Okay."  
"Find him."  
"Okay."  
"Don't touch those pills."  
"One last time."

It all went black.


End file.
